Approaching the town, Cartoner rode at a more leisurely pace.  That his life had hung on a thread since sunset did not seem to affect him much, and he looked about him with quiet eyes, while the hand on the bridle was steady.

He was, it seemed, one of those fortunate wayfarers who see their road clearly before them, and for whom the barriers of duty and honor, which stand on either side of every man’s path, present neither gap nor gate.  He had courage and patience, and was content to exercise both, without weighing the changes of reward too carefully.  That he read his duty in a different sense to that understood by other men was no doubt only that which this tolerant age calls a matter of temperament.

“That Cartoner,” Deulin was in the habit of saying, “takes certain things so seriously, and other things—­social things, to which I give most careful attention—­he ignores.  And yet we often reach the same end by different routes.”

Which was quite true.  But Deulin reached the end by a happy guess, and that easy exercise of intuition which is the special gift of the Gallic race, while Cartoner worked his way towards his goal with a steady perseverance and slow, sure steps.

“In a moment of danger give me Cartoner,” Deulin had once said.

On more than one occasion Cartoner had shown quite clearly, without words, that he understood and appreciated that odd mixture of heroism and frivolity which will always puzzle the world and draw its wondering attention to France.  The two men never compared notes, never helped each other, never exchanged the minutest confidence.

Joseph P. Mangles was different.  He spoke quite openly of his work.

“Got a job in Russia,” he had stolidly told any one who asked him.  “Cold, unhealthy place.”  He seemed to enter upon his duties with the casual interest of the amateur, and, in a way, exactly embodied the attitude of his country towards Europe, of which the many wheels within wheels may spin and whir or halt and grind without in any degree affecting the great republic.  America can afford to content herself with the knowledge of what has happened or is happening.  Countries nearer to the field of action must know what is going to happen.

Cartoner rode placidly to the stable where he had hired his horse, and delivered the beast to its owner.  He had no one in Warsaw to go to and relate his adventures.  He was alone, as he had been all his life—­alone with his failures and his small successes—­content, it would seem, to be a good servant in a great service.

He went to the restaurant of the Hotel de France, which is a quiet place of refreshment close to the Jasna, which has no political importance, like the restaurant of the Europe, and there dined.  The square was deserted as he stumbled over the vile pavement towards his rooms.  The concierge was sitting at the door of the quiet house where he had taken an apartment.  All along the street the dvornik